The Lost Murderer
by ThePandoricaWillOpen
Summary: The first body was found 9 weeks ago, the words "Find Me" scribed near the body. Someone is after Sherlock Holmes and his blogger, John Watson. Someone who is willing to kill for their attention. Meanwhile, Sherlock is conducting an experiment on John. How does the outcome of his experiment affect the killer's motives? M for sexual themes, murder and gore. JohnLock if you squint.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Lost Murderer

**Rating: **M for sexual themes, cursing, gore, death and maybe triggers for some.

**Words: **1,678

**Beta: **Stormaggedon Dark Lord of All

******Author's Note: **I don't know where this particular story came from but I'm loving it! Murder is my cup of tea, apparently. I have a few parts done and It might be confusing at first but bare with me. No Sherlock in this chapter but he will come soon enough. JohnLock eventually (Implied for now).**  
**

**Summary: **The first body was found 9 weeks ago, the words "Find Me" scribed near the body. At first Lestrade wanted Sherlock to have nothing to do with the investigation but soon it became apparent that Sherlock had _everything_ to do with the murders. Someone is after Sherlock Holmes and his blogger, John Watson. Someone who is willing to kill for their attention. Will they catch him before he kills again? Before someone close to them dies?

* * *

**PART ONE**

* * *

**- 9 weeks ago (Unknown)**

_He started by gently tracing the inside of her thigh, following the path he had seen the man on the telly take to illicit a pleasurable moan from his conquest. The girl under him arched back, throwing her head to the side to hide a gasp between her raised arm and the pillows beneath her. He smiled as he continued tracing her skin all the way to the tip of her toes. Once there, he moved to the other pale leg and retraced his steps, his fingers slowly making their way back to her hips. The girl giggled once his fingers touched her stomach, stretching her arms above her head and leaning forward to catch his lips. But he was too quick for her. Darting his head to the side, he traced her jugular artery__ with his lips, planting little kisses here and there between her scapula, neck and__ clavicle. The pale flesh became covered in goose bumps when his lips lifted from her skin, a faint smile present on them._

_"Is that good?" he asked her, his deep voice sending a visible shiver down her body. His lips hovered above hers as she inhaled sharply and nodded, her teeth biting at her lower lip. She was aroused, the smell and wetness was enough to prove this but he was unsatisfied. He reached towards her, cupping the sides of her face harshly. "Say it," he demanded._

_The girl looked unnerved for a moment, her hands coming up to her neck trying to dislodge his fingers from her face. But then she smiled, as if she'd figured out what he meant and said, "It is good."_

_He smiled._

_He pressed a small kiss on her lips, dislodging a hand from her face and moving it down her body until he reached her hips, and cocked an eyebrow. His hand moved between her legs, searching for his prize. She was wet – very wet – and it pleased him. He stared at her, her blue eyes closed in pleasure and her mouth opened slightly letting the ends of white teeth peaked between her pink lips. He stared at her whilst moving his hand over and over again and what he knew gave her pleasure. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, her pulse accelerating as she begun to reach her peak._

_When she let out a shallow gasp, her hands grasping at the bed under her with a tight grip, he knew she was done for. His smile waned as he pulled his hand back from between her legs. She was satisfied, a faint smile on her face, whilst he remained flaccid and displeased. He felt a pain between his own legs, an aching need of disgust. This had been a mistake. She had been a mistake. She wanted nothing but her own pleasures, even if he was the one paying her for it. She had tricked him, plain and simple, and he wasn't going to take that._

_Her eyes were still closed when his hand gripped her by the neck. She smiled, thinking that it was another touch of foreplay, her tongue licking her lips as she waited for him to make the next move. She wasn't expecting his grip to tighten. Her eyes snapped open as his thumb began to crush her larynx. She gasped, clawing at his hands and then his face when that failed. Her legs thrashed on the bed, her knee connecting with his back once before his fingers pushed harder on her throat and she began to pass out._

_There was snap and a final exhale before he let go of her, throwing the now empty shell on the bed with disgust. He stood, reaching over to a chair a few paces away from the bed and recovering his shirt. He put on the shirt, turning to look back at the naked girl on the bed. She was beautiful_,_ but even her beauty – or that of the others – were not enough to satisfy him. She was pale,_ thin,_ but with curves. Her lips would soon turn white, as would the rest of her body. Her eyes would turn glassy and her face would relax into either a look of horror__ or peace. He liked the horrified expression on this one's face._

_As he finished buttoning his shirt, he reached his pants and continued to dress. He pressed a final kiss on the girl's cold lips and whispered,_ "_Thank you." He slipped his hand into his pocket to get his phone out. He looked at the girl one last time, stood and then dialled a number into his phone. After two beats, he spoke into the speaker, "I did it." He hung up and put his phone away._

_He crouched down on the floor by the bed, took out a large black marker and uncapped it. He spun the marker between his fingers for a_ moment,_ as if contemplating what he was about to do. In the end, he put the tip of the marker to the wooden floor and wrote out his message. This was the first of many; he could feel it. Without another word, he slipped from the room and walked out of the hotel, his curly hair flowing in the wind along with his long coat._


	2. Chapter 2

**Present**_…_

It had been a long day for Detective Inspector Lestrade. He had had a very trying day filled with disgruntled criminals, false leads and a snappy Donovan. Even Anderson was in an even sourer mood than usual. If he didn't know any better, Lestrade would think that those two things were related. But that was outrageous, even if Sherlock did try to prove it a few times before. It was against regulations.

_Yeah, like you stick to regulations! You bring in Sherlock every time a case get's too hard, which__ seems like a regular occurrence now. It's like you are begging to be put down by the intelligent bastard._

Lestrade was trying to avoid calling Sherlock on the recent case that had landed on his desk along with nine files attached of victims. The killer's most recent attack had been a rich American girl that had gone missing and found on the same day. Alicia Davenport had been her name. A maid in a hotel room had found her. It was another tick mark on what the newspapers now called The Lost Murderer. Of course Sherlock had called in a few times, asking – _demanding_ was more like it – for information. Lestrade had ignored him, putting him on hold or transferring him to Donovan the first few times. After a while, Sherlock began to use his techno-voodoo and started to send his text messages, emails and various other things on every piece of technology that Lestrade came into contact until finally he called up John.

John had a way with Sherlock. In the six years he'd known the man, no one – not unless he was an intelligent murderer and even then, once the crime was uncovered, Sherlock reverted back to his cold, dark ways – was able to calm Sherlock down. It was unexplainable. The best way to describe their relationship was Sherlock as the brains and John as the heart.

So Lestrade called John on his mobile. In the background he could hear a booming voice –Sherlock's – yelling and some shuffling as John tried to talk into the mouthpiece. After a moment and a 'bugger off or I'll take Billy!' John spoke.

"Hello, Greg," the doctor said cheerfully. Lestrade smiled to himself. At the end of the day, he sometimes had to look at himself in the mirror and remind himself that his name was Greg Lestrade and not Detective Inspector Shit Face. "Is he bothering you again? I told him to stop but he's – well, you know how he is…"

"Yeah," he replied leaning back in his chair behind his cluttered desk - the files of the Lost murderer spread about it, covering every inch of the surface and threatening to spill to the floor. "Well, I can't bring him in, not just yet. It's still not entirely in my hands. There are several other DI's who are still involved. If it was just me, I would let him at it." A lie but it would keep Sherlock away for a bit.

"I understand," John said. "Not sure if Sherlock will, though."

"We can't always get what we want," Lestrade mused. "This guy is driving us crazy, killing all over the place and leaving the clues that lead nowhere. I have the police chief on my ass… I can't let Sherlock in. I can't handle another nutter on my hands. Sorry."

"No need to apologise," John assured him. "He makes everyone crazy."

"Everyone but you it seems."

"Oh, no!" John said with a laugh. "You should have been here ten minutes ago. We had a row about his milk experiments. It was horrid but I think I won that round."

"Good for you, mate!" Lestrade cheered. "Well, listen, I have to go but tell Sherlock that the moment things die down, he can come and have a look."

"Alright. I will."

Lestrade hung up and sighed. Three hours until he could go home, three hours of having to look at case files of a deranged murderer who killed his victims after sex. He crushed their larynx, applying a pressure so hard that it managed to fracture part of their spines. It was cases like these that Lestrade wondered why he became a police officer.

Well, if he had to suffer so did Donovan. He looked towards the squad room at a smiling detective and yelled, "DONOVAN!" He motioned with his hand and her smile disappeared. Lestrade smiled to himself before remembering the grim case that awaited them.

"Sir."

"The Lost Murderer," Lestrade said pointing to his desk. "Let's get on with it."

* * *

John sighed loudly, his eyes flickering over to where Sherlock – the great consulting detective – laid on the couch, legs pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped around himself. His curly mop of hair, pale feet and hands were the only things visible from under his gigantic blue robe. Blue for boredom. He was like a baby, needing to be looked after and check up on or else he would die. Not that he would ever tell that to Sherlock for the detective would say otherwise.

But today the usual boredom was mixed with annoyance. The Lost Murderer had struck again and Sherlock was being denied access to the case. They had nine dead girls and no suspects, Sherlock had reasoned, so why not let him solve it before they fucked it all up even more? He was confident that he would be able to solve it in a matter of days, and John didn't doubt that. He also didn't doubt that Sherlock resented not being called into what could be a level 9 case. He didn't get out of bed for anything less than a 7 and even then he couldn't guarantee he would be fully clothed.

John felt like a babysitter but understood what Sherlock was feeling. He himself had become restless these last few weeks. He had begun a routine; something he would do every day without fault and it bored him. Life with Sherlock was never boring… except when it was.

"John?" Sherlock's voice called out from the couch. They had a few feet of distance and yet the detective felt the need to shout, "John?"

"What?" John yelled back, not moving an inch from his seat. He turned his head to look at the man who was curled up on the couch, legs pulled up to his chest, and his back to John. He could see Sherlock's spine projecting out from his pyjamas and robe and shook his head. Sherlock needed to eat more often; it was necessary – but not something 'vital for brainwork' as he would say.

"John?"

"What, Sherlock?"

"My stomach is doing that rumbling thing again," Sherlock moaned out, wrapping his long arms around his legs and turning into a blue ball on the couch.

"You're brilliant," John said with a sigh, "and yet you can't figure out what to do about that?"

"I'm hungry," Sherlock snapped, his hand running through his curly head. The next words were spoken in a whisper, "Make it go away."

"Eat." John could swear Sherlock was like a five year old whenever it was just the two of them. Mrs Hudson was at her sisters and if John left Sherlock alone, he might end up coming back to a burning building. "Get up and make yourself some food."

"No."

John paused, confused. "Aren't you hungry?"

"Just toast and tea for me, thanks," Sherlock said.

John could practically hear the smirk on the man's face. He knew eventually he would give up and stand, head to the kitchen and make Sherlock his damned food. It was how it always happened because John for cared when it came to Sherlock's health, unlike the man himself. Without another word, he stood and went to the kitchen. He put the kettle on and waited. He looked towards Sherlock and shook his head.

"Lestrade said -"

"I could solve the case in less than a week!"

" - That he can't let you look at the files just yet," John continued, ignoring the detective. "But the moment he can, he will."

"This is punishment for that thing last week," Sherlock replied. "It is not my fault that Dimmock is an idiot!"

"Yes, because everyone knows that peanuts are an ingredient in dynamite!"

"It's science, John."

"You know that and yet the solar system eludes you, interesting," John mused. "You are a -" The kettle whistle startled him enough to shut his mouth. If he continued to push, Sherlock would simply ignore him and not eat.

"I'm a what?" Sherlock asked as John prepared the tea. He ignored the detective as he made lunch, taking on the role of a mother hen because who else would take care of Sherlock? The next thing he knew, a hot breath was whispering into his ear, "John, what is it that you were going to say?"

"Nothing," John mumbled as he put the teacups on a tray. He couldn't step away without having to touch Sherlock. With a sigh, he said, "I can't move anywhere with you pressing up against me. Do you want the rumbling to go away or not?"

Sherlock took a step back. "Yes, but don't change the subject."

"I'm not."

"You are a terrible liar."

"I am not."

"Yes, you are."

"Drink." John put a cup on the counter and pointed at it. "There is food in the refrigerator, get it yourself. I'm going for a walk."

"Aren't you going to drink with me?"

"No," John said as he left, closing the door behind him. He didn't see the look Sherlock gave him as he left or the notebook that he took out of his pocket, where he scratched something out before throwing himself on the couch once more.


	3. Chapter 3

- **8 weeks (Judy Garth)**

_Judy. Judy Garth was her name. Judy… like his favourite actress Judy Garland… It made her even more irresistible. This girl was special, really special. He met her at a posh restaurant one night, she was the waitress who had flirted with him or perhaps had been especially nice, he couldn't remember. The point was that for two weeks he had come in, sat down and, even if it wasn't a seat in her section, she took his order. They sat together sometimes and merely talked. _

_It was a week after his first kill when he felt the urge to take her. The excitement of the hunt had worn down already and she was perfect. Unlike his last victim, she was more normal. Although he had enjoyed his last conquest very much, he didn't like the feel of the thin skin and protruding bones the girl had had. She had been far too skinny, far too venerable feeling. Killing her had been too easy. But Judy, dear Judy, was a thick girl. She had curves – real, natural curves. Curves that only a _real_ woman had. A girl was all skin and bones but a _true_ woman was big and beautiful. _

_He planned to take her after her shift on Wednesday night. It was a perfect night – every night was perfect if he was with a beautiful girl. Her hair flew in the wind, the red colour turning blood red in the dark moonlight. He reached out, tucking a strand behind her ear, his finger gently touching her soft pale skin. She was beautiful and on this beautiful night, she would die. It seemed almost… poetic. _

_He took her out to the park after hearing her say something about loving the stars. He, himself, had never found much fascination in the sky but this wasn't about him – not yet at least. They walked around, trying to find the best location from which to star gaze and finding it, as luck would have it, in the most abandoned and farthest part of the park. The trees around the area were scarce and, with the distance from the roads and city, the stars were visible a bit more than normal. She was awed nonetheless, walking backwards, side-to-side and in circles to get a look at every bit of the sky. He watched her, seeing the way her body twisted and turned in the moonlight, her pale neck being exposed to him like a sacrifice. Her beautiful hair swayed with what little wind she made as she moved. Her eyes full blown in amazement and lips parted slightly. _

_"I can't believe I've never been here," she whispered turning to him with a big smile. "Thank you."_

_"The pleasure was all mine."_

* * *

_They went to the park a total of nine nights before he stopped going to the restaurant. She would call during her breaks and he would pass the call through to voicemail, smiling as a message was recorded every single time. She was needy, he wasn't sure if he liked that or not. But that meant there was now a phone record that could connect him to Judy and that was not good. Two weeks after his last visit, he was back sitting in his regular table reading a book like he always did. She came by, took his order and left without as much as pleasantries exchanged. He couldn't help but smile at that._

_When she came back with his food, he grabbed her wrist gently, pulling her back to the table as she tried to make a quick getaway and apologised for being away so long. He told her that he'd been sent away on last minute on an important business trip and hadn't had time to call her. By the time he'd gotten back two days ago, he was so jetlagged that he'd stayed in bed until finally, today, deciding to get up and see his 'dear, Judy, with hair the colour of a rose petal.' _

_Frankly, he was surprised a moment later as he let go of her wrist that she smiled down at him, shaking her head and saying how strange it'd been without him. He teased her a bit, watching her cheeks form little dimples as she tried to supress a laugh. By the time he finished eating, she was eager to return to 'their spot' as she called it. But he suggested a more intimate setting. She agreed a bit too readily. He was going to enjoy this._


	4. Chapter 4

**Present**_…_

The body of Melissa Harrison was found later that day in a bathtub filled with bleach. The neighbours had complained about an awful smell and the landlord had come in to investigate. Detective Inspector Lestrade arrived at the scene an hour after her body was found.

He couldn't figure this guy out. He would pick them up at random pubs and take them to various locations around London, had sex with them multiple times and then killed them. He left plenty of evidence, plenty of fluids, blood and clues and yet no one knew whom he was. He wasn't in the system, his DNA didn't match anyone in the system, which meant either he was nobody important (but Lestrade didn't believe anyone could not be important so someone somewhere) or he was well connected.

This was the tenth person in three months to be killed and the press was outraged. Lestrade was receiving calls from people he hadn't even known were his bosses demanding results. He had no leads. No suspects. All he had were ten dead women and men in the morgue, DNA that matched absolutely no one and an ego that refused to let Sherlock take a look. He looked down at the girl in the bathtub, her pale flesh withered and soapy looking, her wrists were cut and yet there wasn't any blood except for a few drops on the floor. Whoever did this was obviously a very sick man.

"You might want to here this," Donavan's voice said from behind him. Lestrade turned, taking one last look at disturbing body before following her out of the room. She led him to the hallway, he waved at Anderson before turning to the man she brought him to. "Tell 'Im what you told me."

"How many more times do I gotta tell you?" the man bellowed. "The bloke who lived here was named John Watson!"

Lestrade took a step back, shocked. John Watson. John _bloody_ Watson owned this apartment. "_Doctor_ John Watson?"

"I ne'er heard 'im say he were a doctor," the man replied. "But he did have a snooty look about 'im. Like you lot do." He turned away from them and left. "It makes sense," Donavan said. Lestrade turned to her, eyebrow cocked, daring her to continue. She didn't take the hint and added, "Sherlock knows how the police works, he can easily get rid of evidence and make it look like someone else did. He has dead bodies in his kitchen and-"

"Enough." Lestrade shook his head, not believing a word but since John's name was brought up, he had no choice but to bring him in. "Pick them up."

* * *

John knew he was fucked the moment Sherlock stood before him, hands behind his back, and said, "I want you."

John was sitting in his comfy chair reading the newspaper when Sherlock had finally arisen for the ever-lasting boredom that had kept him in his room for nearly three days. John had tried to get Sherlock to get out of his room but had failed. A few insults later, John gave up, leaving Sherlock to his things (whatever it was he was doing in that room) only going back to leave him a tray of food, which Sherlock pecked at but never finished. John knew Sherlock was ticked off because for once Greg didn't want him on the serial murder case that he'd recently been assigned to. John knew Greg wanted to solve a case without the help of the detective.

He'd become used to the quiet, no science experiments blowing up in the kitchen, not insurable groans of boredom originating from Sherlock's mouth. Baker Street was quiet for once. Until Sherlock left his room, showered and stood in front of John. He wore the purple shirt that clung to his thin frame, and a well-tailored suit instead of his robe and pyjamas. That was a good sign. The rest was not.

"I want you, John," Sherlock repeated.

John briefly looked up from his newspaper, flipping the page as he glanced at the detective and asked, "What do you want?"

"You."

"What do you want _me_ to do?" John asked looking back down at the paper in an attempt to think away the blush that was creeping upon his cheeks. Sherlock had the tendency to say things only to record John's reactions. A verbal experiment on social behaviour and since no one liked Sherlock, John was his lab rat. He had been through this before and had learned that ignoring the blatant sexual undertone was the best course of action.

Sherlock came around to stand in front of John, taking the newspaper out of his hands and throwing over his shoulder. He crouched down on the tip of his toes, now at eye level with John. The intensity of his eyes was overwhelming. John looked away, unable to stop from blushing. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock smile and it was enough to tick him off.

"Get up, Sherlock," John said motioning upwards with his hands. "You'll crinkle your expensive suit."

"Since when do you care about my suits?"

"I don't." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his lips still pulled up in a smile. John rolled his eyes. "Last time you wrinkled your suit, you threw it out a window. It hit a man on a bike who then crashed into-"

" - I remember."

"Then get off the bloody floor."

A pause. John looked back at Sherlock and saw defiance in his eyes. So very different from the intensity it replaced. For a moment, John was scared. The last time he had that look in his eyes, Sherlock was facing Moriarty. As an unwilling bomb, John had only Sherlock's face to look at whilst his heartbeat raced like a prized stallion horse. The look on the detective's face was both fascinating and frightening.

Sherlock shook his head. "Make me."

"Sherlock," John scolded. "Get. Up."

"Make. Me." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, a challenge in his eyes. "_Captain_ John Watson. Did you earn that by asking nicely?"

"Sherlock. Get up or else," John warned, chewing at his lower lip not wanting to walk into Sherlock's trap. He had to keep his cool, he had to control his emotions or else he was lost.

"Or else what, John?" Sherlock questioned with a smile. "What are you going to do?"

Before John had a chance to answer, Mrs Hudson bellowed from down the stairs, "Boys! There is someone at the door for you!"

"Let them up!" Sherlock bellowed back, never taking his eyes off John who fidgeted in his seat. He leaned forward slightly and whispered, "This isn't over, John."

* * *

The next thing John knew he was being handcuffed and pushed into a police car. He heard Sherlock asked under what right did they have to arrest him and how dare Lestrade do this just to get him to the Yard. John didn't know what insulted him more, the fact that Greg had wanted him arrested or that Sherlock didn't think he was possible to do something worthy of an arrest.

He had no choice but to allow himself to be tossed into the car and be taken to the Yard. Sherlock joined him a few moments after arriving, having followed the car in a taxi. He demanded John be released all the way to the fifth floor of the building and once John was taken to an interrogation room, Sherlock decided that he would act as John's lawyer.

"You're quiet for someone who's being accused of murder," Sherlock said, leaning back on the wall behind John. "Why?"

"If I make a fuss, they might think I actually did it," John pointed out. "Besides, if I was to kill anyone, I would have started with you."

"Sentiment?" Sherlock asked.

"Annoyance," John returned without looking at him. "I didn't kill anyone, Sherlock. And if you try and tell them so, they'll just think you're covering for me. We're friends and that's what friends do."

"I know you did not, John. You need not convince me of your innocence." He came around John and faced him, sitting on the chair opposite. "It is Lestrade we must convince and you know how simple minded he is."

"Greg is not-" John stopped as the door opened and in came Lestrade himself. He smiled at the two men, holding a folder in his hands. He closed the door behind him and approached them. "Lestrade."

"John. Sherlock." He nodded to them both, putting down the folder on the table and sliding it to Sherlock. "This is everything we've got on the killer." He held up a hand when John opened his mouth. "I know you didn't kill anyone, John. Someone very high up on the chain of command provided information that … cleared your name."

John looked to Sherlock, eyes narrowed. He had something to do with it; John could see it in his eyes. Mycroft. But why would Sherlock call Mycroft for help? He wouldn't call his brother for something like this... would he? As far as he knew, the two had an understanding. But he and Sherlock would have to discuss it later judging by the contents of the folder Lestrade spread about the on the table. The serial murderer case was finally in Sherlock's eager hands and nothing, not even a murderer, was more dangerous than Sherlock on a case.

"It started about three months back," the DI began. "A twenty year old female was found under a bridge by a homeless man. She had bruises along her hips and thighs and two finger-like bruises around her throat. Her trachea was broken. She was strangled and raped.

"A week later another body. Twenty five year old female found in an alley. At the time they were two separate murders but the coroner was able to link them by the pattern of the bruises and DNA found inside the bodies. We had a murderer on our hands.

"Another week: another body. Every week for three months there has been a dead female found in one place or another. Trachea broken, bruised hips and thighs, signs of sex before death and there was one more thing." He pulled out a photograph, holding it out to Sherlock. He took it and blinked, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion. Sherlock held it out towards John as Lestrade continued. "The killer left a note. It is why we are calling it the Lost Murderer. Each of the victims had the words 'Find Me' burned into their flesh.

"The first one had it burned into her scalp; the second on the back of the neck; third and fifth on the arms; fourth and sixth on the legs; seventh on her lower back; eight on her breast and ninth on her face. Tenth victim was found this morning in a bathtub full of bleach. He killed twice in one week now."

"Where was the note on her?" John asked.

"On the clavicle, right above the range of the bleach," Lestrade answered. "The landlord was abled to give us a name and a description of the man."

"Why haven't you arrested him, then?" John asked, looking at Sherlock who had been quite the whole time. "Why arrest me?

"The name given was John Watson," Lestrade explained. "That is why I had you brought in."

"Well, I didn't do this," John said. "I can't be the only John Watson in London. I –"

"We aren't charging you with anything, John. But now that you two are down here, might as well let you in on the case. I'll have the files brought in here and when you find anything, let me know." He directed the last bit more to John than Sherlock who was already looking through the files, sifting through the file rapidly.

John and Sherlock were left alone with a folder full of photographs of dead men and women.


End file.
